


While Your Heart Still Beats

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Arranged Marriage, Discrimination, Fae & Fairies, First Kiss, Illnesses, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 21:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: When he saw the wolf emerge on silent pads from between the trees, he knew. Death had come for him. He merely hoped his end was swift.A touch more fatalistic from you than I’ve come to expect.He opened his eyes as the unearthly voice echoed through his mind. “Perhaps,” he rasped. “But not unrealistic.”The wolf cocked its head, staring at him a moment before laying down beside him.Is that it, then? You’ve no desire left to live?He tried to focus, and could not, so he let his eyes slip closed. “Desire, I have. Just not the means.”The wolf snapped its teeth.What would you give me in return for your life?





	While Your Heart Still Beats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Green](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green/gifts).



> Holy _fuck_ this was a nightmare to wrangle! I couldn't have done it without help from the long-suffering BelleAmante and DenaCeleste, as well as Aminas, TriscuitsandSoup, and red_crate. 
> 
> Happy belated Birthday, Greenie! Love you, and I hope you like your present. 
> 
> Happy Friday, everyone!

 

It is a new age. The old gods are dead, they said, and sacrifices are a thing of the past, as the bloodthirsty spirits who demanded them lie slain or slumbering. Magic is dead, they said, if it ever existed as more than tricks to frighten children.

So they said.

Stiles nodded along with the rest, but held his tongue. He had seen things that the elders could not explain away, heard the whispering voice of that which had never been human. But he knew better than to speak of such things. The elders would not take kindly to dissent.

Still. He was not like the rest, willing to believe hollow words simply because he wished they carried the weight of truth.

He continued the way he always had. He left offerings at the site of his catches, be they fish, fowl, or large game, and did not dare the forest at night. He cast a salt ring around his cottage on the nights when the veil between this world and the next thinned, and he always carried a piece of iron in his pocket. The voice that only he could hear approved, called him clever.

He gave silent thanks in reply. He may not have known the form or power behind the voice, but he knew that it was there, and would not risk causing offense.

The others thought him odd, and over time, grew hostile. The bad luck and fear that fell on others didn’t touch him, and ugly rumours were born. They stayed quiet; the elders continued to insist that there was no magic, no gods, nothing in the forest but the flora and fauna that called it home. Their reiterations grew louder and fanatic as healthy babes died and strong-bodied hunters disappeared without a trace, as beasts of prey slaughtered pets and livestock where once they did not dare the hunters’ arrows.

Some, those who were old enough to remember the old ways but not old enough to know the reasons for them, believed the gods were angry. They whispered of punishment, that the worst was yet to come. The wise women shook their heads, and Stiles with them.

This was not divine wrath. It was worse. It was indifference.

He tried not to mind the way the others withdrew from him, but slowly, he grew angry. The others would not trade with him, not his game for their firewood, healing skills for bread, child-minding for repairs to his cottage. While he had been discreet, the elders knew he had not forsaken the old ways, and so they poisoned ears against him.

He carried on, but it was a struggle. Were it not for Scott and his mother, Stiles would have been forced to manage alone. His father was on the council of elders, and could not be seen supporting a mad son. He was lucky that he could count on Melissa’s bread, and Scott’s nimble, steady hands when his thatch began to leak. They needed him—Scott’s capable hands were betrayed by his weak lungs, and both he and Melissa relied on the meat Stiles put on their table—but they loved him, too.  

It wasn’t long before the elders were at their door, demanding that they shun him. They refused. The voice of power in the back of his mind growled approval at their loyalty, but he felt heavy dread settle in his stomach at what would become of them.

The elders did all they could to cast Scott and Melissa out with him, but failed. The village children refused to relinquish their favourite minder, and Melissa was too skilled a midwife and healer. But they could not escape the ill-temperedness that came from associating with him, or the way his name was spat like a curse.

They managed. At least until the day a violent fever ravaged their village. Scott came to Stiles’s cottage, while Stiles took his place. Melissa was treating the sick, and feared to lose her son should he take ill. It took but a handful of days before Stiles was sick with fever, mere hours until he was wretched with it. Melissa was out tending the ill, and none would respond to his cries for aid. He could not even convince a young girl passing by to carry a message.

So he staggered to the water bucket, and forced down as much as he could before making his way into the forest, leaning heavily on one of Scott’s walking sticks. He was not too proud to crawl, but he would not abase himself before those who would watch him die without lifting a finger. Not if he could help it.

He stumbled at every step, but persisted. He knew the herb he needed, the look and smell of the flower that Melissa said calmed the fever. He just needed to find it.

He pushed onward, squinting through the dying sunlight while his legs trembled. When he fell, he landed hard, and closed his eyes to catch his breath. When he opened them again, night had fallen, and he was too weak to move. He struggled to but breathe.

When he saw the wolf emerge on silent pads from between the trees, he knew. Death had come for him. He merely hoped his end was swift.

_A touch more fatalistic from you than I’ve come to expect._

He opened his eyes as the unearthly voice echoed through his mind. “Perhaps,” he rasped. “But not unrealistic.”

The wolf cocked its head, staring at him a moment before laying down beside him. _Is that it, then? You’ve no desire left to live?_

He tried to focus, and could not, so he let his eyes slip closed. “Desire, I have. Just not the means.”

The wolf snapped its teeth. _What would you give me in return for your life?_

His heart stuttered. Even knowing it was a trap, he still felt the pangs of disappointed hope. “Nothing,” he replied.  

_Nothing?_

“I have nothing to give.”

_I could change that._

He breathed carefully. He wanted to live, but his mind was clouded by fever, and he did not know how to escape the oft-fatal end that comes to those who bargain with the fae. Still, the reward was worth the risk, so he asked, “How?”

“Come back across the veil with me, as my bride.”

The shock of the smooth, light voice made his eyes fly open, and he stared. In place of the wolf there was now a man with sharp, unearthly beauty. If he had ever doubted before, he did no longer—the creature before him, the owner of the voice he’d heard all his life, with piercing eyes framed by shining glyphs, was not human. Still, he needed to be certain. “A fairy bride.”

The wolf-fae nodded. It was tempting, but he knew he must refuse. “I can’t. My family needs me.”

The fae glared. “If you refuse, you will leave them anyhow. Death is approaching on swift wings.”

Stiles knew that also, could feel it in every scrape of air pulled into his chest. “Agreeing to be your bride is an unfair exchange,” he argued.  

“How so? I will pluck your life from Death’s very hands.”

“Only to take it as your own.”

The wolf-fae smirked, amused. “You have always been mine, but very well. State your terms, but quickly—I can only honour our bargain while your heart still beats.”

Words were hard to form, so he struggled to make them count. “Scott and Melissa need me. To help. Hunt.”

The fae hummed, a disinterested sound, but tilted to stare into his eyes. “Why?”

“Scott—bad lungs.”

The wolf-fae nodded again. “I can cure him, ensure he is strong and healthy so he and his mother will want for nothing. Any other terms will have to wait. Remove the iron from your pocket.”

He knew the iron prevented the fae from using magic on him, from taking him across the veil, and knew his time was dangerously short. Still, he remained cautious. “How can I know you’ll keep your word?” he asked.

The fae’s grin was sharp. “I may not be welcome in Seelie halls, but I am still bound by the rules of my kind, and thus can utter no untruths. You have my word that you shall have an opportunity to make further conditions later. But if you wish to live to make demands, you will remove the iron from your pocket this instant.”

Stiles was afraid. Only a fool would not be. But even so, he fumbled the lodestone from his pocket, and the fae caught his forearm before it fell to the ground. He felt the caress of lips before the bright pain of animal teeth, and then, between one breath and the next, his slipped into darkness.

 

***

 

When he awoke, he did not know where he was. Nothing was familiar—not even the birdsong. Fear gripped him, but before it ran away with him entirely, the fae appeared, and he remembered.

“Where am I?” he asked.

The wolf-fae raised an eyebrow. “My home, of course.”

Stiles swallowed. “You took me across the veil?”

“I told you I would.” And so he did, and yet Stiles thought he would have the chance to say goodbye, first. Before he could ask, the fae continued, saying, “It will be some time before it is safe for you to be around them. But I swear that you will have your chance. After all, I need to cross back to fulfill your requirement for your brother.”

He frowned, trying to make sense of the fae’s words. When he did, his heart began to pound, and his skin itched, as if shrinking. “Why wouldn’t it be safe?”

The wolf-fae stared at him a moment, expression unreadable, before bidding him to look at his hands. When he did, he saw claws, and the beginnings of a thick pelt covering his forearms. “What have you done to me?” he cried.

The fae caught his jaw, forcing him to meet eyes that glowed an eerie red. “I saved your life, as promised. I never said you would remain human.”

Stiles was devastated. He raged silently for days, refusing to look at the fae he named “husband”, let alone speak. Even so, he listened, and paid strict attention when his new mate explained the rules of this new existence. He ached for the reassuring grip of Scott’s arms, for Melissa’s level-headedness when he learned that he was bound to the fae realms, for he had become one of them in more ways than he had guessed. He wished for his father’s steadiness as his emotions rampaged, and with them, his physical form.

The little peace he could find was in his walks through the faery wilds. He avoided the court, not needing his husband’s warning to steer clear of fae politics. Even as a human, he’d had little patience for the petty squabbling and grabs for power. Instead, he wandered the forest. It was as close as he could find to anything familiar, and yet was disturbingly foreign. He did not know the vegetation, could not navigate by the stars.

He felt more lost, and more alone, than he ever had. It was why he did not believe his eyes the day he saw Scott walk toward him through the trees.

“Stiles! You’re really here!”

He shrugged, staring at the conjured face of his brother in all but blood. He’d missed the sight. “Wherever ‘here’ is,” he replied.

The Scott glamour paused. “Your—your husband? He said I could find you here.” Stiles merely tipped his head, waiting for the illusion to reveal its purpose. The glamour moved toward him. “Stiles? What’s wrong? You’re not acting like yourself.”

He turned away, unable to stand the concern painted on familiar features. “Perhaps because I am not myself,” he said. “Not anymore. Not ever again. Death does that to a person.”

Warm, callused hands cupped his face. “But you did not die. We believed that you had, disappearing as you did after falling ill. Your body was never found, so I grieved you. My mother grieved you.”

He knew, then. This was Scott, his brother. Glamours could not mimic the warmth of the embrace Scott wrapped him in, or the scent of _family_ and _home_ that clung to every inch of him. Stiles began to shake as he let himself grieve, and Scott gripped him tightly, offering comfort as he cried.

After his tears ran dry, they settled on the grass. He couldn’t hold Scott’s eyes, but could not stop his gaze from straying back to the beloved face. Eventually, Scott took pity on him. “Tell me what happened.”

He scoffed, bitter. “Did my husband not tell you?”

Scott shook his head. “He told me some things, but I want to hear the truth from your own mouth. And, because I’ve known you my whole life, I know that you need to speak it to someone you trust.”

Scott was right, and soon, the whole sordid tale was told—starting with his fever, the ill-made bargain and subsequent marriage that followed, and his long stretch of angry, miserable days. When he finished, Scott shook his head again. “You’ve been blind.” Stiles could not stop the angry snarl that ripped up from his chest, nor did he want to. Scott did not flinch. “Think for a moment. If this had been a marriage with a fellow human rather than the fae, would it have seemed fair?”

The silence was tense as he pondered the question. Finally, he admitted, “No. I made demands, but brought no dowry.”

“You also married above you.” He glared at Scott for that, but his brother was unrepentant. “He is a lord. And, even if he were not, even you can’t argue that the grant of immortality is a rich gift.”

He tossed his head, wishing it would clear the confusion from his thoughts. “And what would you have me do, then?” he asked.

Scott smiled. “For now? Come home with me for a visit.”

 

***

 

Stiles’s husband accompanied them across the veil in the form of a large black wolf, and did not leave their side even as they crossed into the village. The fact that Stiles had reappeared after so long away spread like wildfire, and soon, villagers gathered to stare—their past revulsion drowned, for the moment, by morbid curiosity. He did not deign to acknowledge the questions they shouted at him, and the angry snarl his husband gave when someone dared too close prevented him from being mobbed.

However, the news of his return did not miss his father’s ears, and though Stiles nodded in greeting, naming the man father, his husband did not let John near enough to touch. “Stiles, please—I would speak with you.”

Stiles nodded his agreement, and gestured for his father to join them. This was a private matter. They crossed the village to where Stiles’s cottage still stood, and out of respect for John’s status as Elder, the villagers did not follow. Melissa was already there, and the fae in wolfskin stayed quiet when she embraced Stiles. He felt settled when she let go.  

But they were no sooner inside than Melissa demanded to know where he had been. She blanched when he told her with the fae. He reluctantly explained that he’d been deathly ill, but had been saved by his husband.

His father’s face was dark, and his voice hard. “You’ve married without my permission?”

The wolf chose that moment to unfold into the form of a man to answer. “You were in no position to disallow it. Nor can you take him from me.”

At that, horror painted John’s face. Before Stiles could think of a reply, Scott defended him. “You have never been a fool, Elder. You know as well as I that Stiles is a fairy bride, and you ought to be grateful. It saved your son’s life.”

“How?” Melissa asked. Stiles let the change come over him in answer—altering his eyes and face and hands, though he did not step inside his wolfskin. His husband said he was not yet ready, and could lose himself if he tried.

“This is forbidden,” John spat, trembling as he stepped away from his son. “The fae do not exist. Stiles, you will return home.”

Stiles’s heart felt pulled in too many directions. His husband wrapped an arm around him, and Stiles leaned gratefully against his side. The fae lord’s voice was deep with anger as he told John, “Quiet your faithless tongue. You, who disavowed kin for position and allowed others to do the same, cannot now claim kinship because you wish for power over matters beyond your control. You should leave, for my patience grows thin.”

Stiles turned his face away from the curdled stench of his father’s rage, hiding in his husband’s shoulder. After his father stormed away, he sunk to the pallet he once slept on before turning to Melissa. He expected her anger next, but she merely smiled, and asked if he was well cared-for.

He paused, unsure how to answer. He had food, a place to sleep, shelter from the weather. A life away from everything he’d ever known. “Well enough,” he said.  

She turned her gaze on his husband and asked, “What, precisely, were the marriage terms?”

The fae lord sketched a mocking bow before telling how he’d gifted Stiles the Bite, turning him fae and saving his life. In return, Stiles crossed the veil as his bride—but not before insisting that Scott be restored to health, that Stiles’s family would not suffer without him.

Melissa gave him a look that was both fond and sad. “We would suffer without him regardless,” she said. “But how would you heal my son?”

“I would grant him the Bite,” the fae replied.

At that, Stiles’s eyes went wide, darting from his husband to his brother. He would not wish his Scott condemned as he had been. But before he could protest, Scott asked, “Would it make me immortal, as you and Stiles are?”

“Yes,” the fae lord told him. “Although you would not be so tightly bound to the realm as your brother. He is my mate, whereas you will be more distant kin.”

Scott nodded, content, but Melissa feared she would lose him, as they had Stiles.

The fae confirmed her fears, said that it would be unwise to leave Scott with her while newly turned, for while the wolf can be controlled, it is not tame. Even after he grew accustomed to his wolfskin, Scott would have to spend the three nights of each full moon on the other side of the veil, with Stiles and his mate. Melissa did not like it, but acquiesced—on the condition that he leave Stiles with her when he took her son, as a guarantee that Scott would be returned to her.

For a moment, Stiles feared that his husband would take offense to the implication, but a grin merely stretched across those unearthly features. He offered to come back for Scott at the winter solstice, leaving Stiles in his place until [Imbolc](http://www.themagickshop.com/Sabbats.html). Scott and Melissa agreed.

After a tearful farewell, Stiles headed back to the forest at his husband’s side. Before they reached the faery ring that would let them cross, he stopped. “You know my name, but have never told me yours,” he murmured.

The fae gave a sly smile. “Names have power, my love. You know this.” He pressed his cheek to Stiles’s. “More importantly, you never asked.”

Stiles moved until he could look into sky-blue eyes. “Will you entrust me with your name, sweet husband?”

The fae leaned in to whisper, “My name is Peter,” against his mouth.

Stiles repeated the name, enjoying the taste of it on his lips—but not as much as the kiss his husband pressed there afterward.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alrighty, so that's two of the WIPs down, and . . . a stupid number still to go. Fuck me. 
> 
> (I'm hoping to get another one done and posted for next week. Keep your fingers crossed, and feed the author with kudos and comments!)


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